SEC Championship Game (4)

(Brad Nessler) — ESPN Play-by-Play

"Take a good look at these two men right here."

(Gary Danielson) — ESPN Analyst

"Yes, sir. Let's take a look."

(Brad Nessler)

"Both of these players have had tremendous seasons, and not once — not once — have they ever let us down."

(Gary Danielson)

"Yep."

Once again, DeVonta Smith and Najee Harris had tormented us badly. Every single time Alabama teetered on the edge of being forced off the field, the nation's best college running back and the nation's best college wide receiver refused to let the team flatline — they kept slapping an oxygen mask back on its face.

The two of them had made our defense look weak, which was something nobody in the entire country had managed to do this season.

So fine. I'll give them their credit.

But that's that, and this is this.

"Turbo, set!!"

Time for me to go back to doing my job.

(Brad Nessler)

"Moi. Play action. He finds Jermaine Burton, and that's a first down! This kid's passing tonight is truly, truly remarkable. Mac Jones is having a hell of a game himself, but Moi has been just a cut better."

First down on the Alabama 36. We'd converted on third down, but we had to keep moving. A new sign came in from the sideline, and we lined up the formation without missing a beat — Goodbye Kitty, a wrung-out variation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Hello Kitty that sent the tight end stretching a little deeper downfield.

"Red-80!! Turbo, set!!"

I faked the handoff to Zamir, the designated blocker, then settled into the pocket and found my kitty. Slipping past Alabama's #4 crashing in from the left, the tight end tore straight into the Crimson Tide secondary, shook loose from #8, and staked out the ground to receive.

Tap.

A light tap of the ball with my left hand set the passing rhythm; my right arm swung through and locked onto my target. Alabama's #9 safety dove from behind and dragged the tight end down — but the ball had already landed in his chest, and we had ourselves a first down at Alabama's 37.

Twenty-seven yards gained in a single breath.

This time, the play design was genuinely beautiful.

(Brad Nessler)

"For context — the all-time passing record in the SEC Championship Game. Peyton Manning threw for 373 yards in 1997. Jason Campbell threw for 374 in 2004. But until tonight, the record belonged to Danny Wuerffel — 401 yards in 1996. And with that completion, Dwayne Moi Stone has just written new history. The game isn't even over yet, and he sits at 413 passing yards."

Ever since we'd pulled ahead in the second quarter, Alabama had been the ones chasing — which meant the pressure had never once lifted off their shoulders. If they'd managed to retake the lead even once, that burden would have transferred to us in full, live and breathing. It hadn't. So the bomb stayed strapped to their backs.

Which made this drive critical.

Well, honestly — there wasn't a single possession today that hadn't been critical.

This was the kind of game that belonged to the quarterback. The better QB carried his team to victory.

Shotgun. Left trips. Three receivers stacked to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠left; tight end and running back to the right. Plenty of room on the play clock.

"…"

Alabama had stacked five defenders at the line of scrimmage. #28 looked like the one taking the tight end. And Dylan Moses — who'd pointlessly shifted out to cornerback in the third quarter and gotten his soul stomped out for it — was glaring daggers at me from behind the D-line. He hadn't budged so much as an inch when I'd shifted Jermaine Burton from right to left earlier, which told me everything: the D-line was going to open a seam between our linemen, and Moses was coming on a blitz.

The distance between us: roughly ten yards. Time to collision: about 1.1 to 1.4 seconds.

"…"

Not enough. I wanted at least half a second more.

"32 Black!! 32 Black!!"

That audible announced to everyone that Dylan Moses was coming for me. I relayed it to the O-line first, then flicked a hand signal at Zamir. From this moment on, protecting me was his job.

The routes had already been assigned. The target order was already set. All that remained was to hand it over to the game itself.

"Red-80!! Set!! Set!!"

I varied the snap call on the off chance Alabama's D-line would jump offsides — but the penalty I was hoping for never came. Fine. A bonus like that is a bonus. I calmly scanned the field.

One Mississippi.

Just as expected, Dylan Moses charged. But that instant, Zamir planted himself in the gap — and bought me exactly the time I needed.

Two Mississippi.

At the two-second mark, every receiver hit the end zone and broke into their assigned routes. Jordan speared straight into the depths of the end zone before snapping ninety degrees to the right, while George bent his path in a √ and worked toward the sideline — and between the two of them, they swallowed Alabama's entire secondary whole. The backfield drifted where those two pulled it, and in all that chaos, Jermaine Burton was suddenly, beautifully, alone.

Load up.

"…"

Throw.

And then—

WHAM!

The one who flattened me this time wasn't Dylan Moses; it was Alabama's #31. Didn't matter — the ball was already gone. I hit the turf with a dull thud and a ripple of pain.

The result?

How'd it end up?

(Brad Nessler)

"Moi out of the shotgun. Not a run — loaded, release, and ohhh— TOUCHDOWN! Oh my! Another touchdown for Georgia!"

Thanks to the words coming out of Zamir's mouth, I had my answer.

"You're fucking good! You're fucking good!!"

Zamir casually shoved the #31 who'd just bulldozed me off to the side, reached down, and hauled me up. I gave his helmet a light tap, then took off running toward Jermaine Burton mid-celebration.

On the way, I passed right by Alabama's defenders, and the words came out of me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Move, or get run over!! I'll keep breaking you all night!!"

(Gary Danielson)

"Dwayne Moi Stone is saying this, folks: 'I'm not just a good player. I'm a great player.' He has made tremendous play after tremendous play, and then another, and another, all night long. And at the same time, he's shouting: 'Hand me the SEC Championship MVP right now.' If Georgia wins this game, the MVP voting is going to be very, very easy."

It is very hard to live a gentle life as a football head coach — and yet, considering Nick Saban's entire career, he was a man who almost never blew up. Incomplete fundamentals. Absurd play calls. Only in cases like those did Nick Saban raise his voice. Anything short of that, he stayed ice.

But right now.

Alabama's head coach was irritated.

"HOW!!!"

The single word Nick Saban spat out — headset torn off and crushed in his fist — struck dead center on the root of that irritation.

How? How?

Every single time it looked like Dwayne Moi Stone was audibling, the defensive scheme Alabama tried ended in failure.

Once, you could forgive. Twice was disappointing.

But three times—

"HOW!!! HOW IS HE DOING THIS!!!"

That was very, very hard to swallow.

(Brad Nessler)

"This is not a sight you see often, folks. Nick Saban looks frustrated with his own defense. His team generated 35 points through three quarters — but they've now given up 43. And it may soon be 44."

Pacing and fuming, Nick Saban planted a hand on his hip and shook his head side to side. What he felt in this moment was the taste of defeat. His team still had time to win — but as a head coach, he already felt like he'd lost.

"Hoo—"

Having clawed back a measure of composure, Saban flipped the headset back on and asked the men in the press box for an offensive call. Opinions flew back and forth, and Alabama's offense jogged onto the field.

Jack Podlesny's PAT had just gone through the uprights, and the gap between Georgia and Alabama now stood at nine points.

For Alabama, scoring fast was everything.

(Brad Nessler)

"Alabama has to hurry and put points on the board. Which means, once again, it all comes down to three men. Quarterback Mac Jones. Wide receiver DeVonta Smith. And running back Najee Harris."

At the same moment, Kirby Smart was studying the field with equal caution. Today Georgia had surrendered a mountain of yardage to Najee Harris's legs, and the defense he prided himself on had barely flexed, battered by tackle designs drawn up in every flavor imaginable.

Even now, a blocking scheme that looked like Georgia's own Marching Band was paving the road for Najee Harris. Fifteen yards stripped away like they were nothing. The Georgia head coach's brow furrowed.

【"I'm sorry."】

"It's not your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fault. It's a simple concept — we just can't stop it. Nick Saban prepared well."

Having consoled his defensive coordinator up in the box, Kirby Smart turned his focus back to the field. The design of Alabama's O-line. The receiver count and the running back's alignment. From one to ten, everything pointed to a Najee Harris run, and there was no doubt Nakobe Dean read it too and was fighting like hell — but simply walling it up wasn't easy.

Once the run had gashed them a few times like that, Alabama crowded the middle. They stacked two fullbacks behind a six-man O-line built with an extra tight end, and parked Najee Harris behind Mac Jones.

The snap. Nearly twenty bodies collided at the line of scrimmage. You'd have sworn no seam could possibly exist between those mountains of men — but Najee Harris found one anyway. Nakobe Dean barely tripped him up, and by then the Tide back had already crossed midfield.

It defied logic. This kind of running back performance.

While I was still grieving the fact that Najee Harris was at his absolute peak tonight, Alabama jabbed into the gap yet again.

"Set!!"

Mac Jones's play action. Najee Harris was the bait.

The real blade was DeVonta Smith. With Georgia's entire defense hypnotized by the run game, Alabama had spotted the moment Smith drew single coverage — and I was already resigning myself to a certain touchdown when Lewis Cine's breathtaking play materialized.

"!!"

He never gave up on the chase. Tracking DeVonta Smith step for step to the last possible instant, he flung his left arm out full stretch and batted away the shoulder-high pass.

Smith was already inside the end zone. If that deflection had failed, it was six points, no argument.

But it didn't fail. That was what mattered.

Lewis Cine's roar lifted Georgia's entire defensive spirit — and Alabama's very next run was swallowed whole by Monty Rice, who clogged the lane. Third and 10. Alabama's last, best chance.

Georgia's defense, riding a fresh surge of momentum, nearly slammed the scales of the game down for good — but Alabama screamed not yet.

(Brad Nessler)

"Play action. Jones. To the end zone— TOUCHDOWN, DEVONTA SMITH! Another Heisman finalist says this game is NOT over yet!"

Kitty's brutal drop had nearly handed Alabama the lead, but Mac Jones's accuracy wobbled in the same breath, and possession swung back to us. Starting drive at our own 14. Eighty-six yards to the end zone.

Even though the play call had already come in, I huddled the offense anyway — just to say this:

"I want this. For real. You know what I'm saying? I really want this. Win the SEC Championship, go play the bowl, and punch our ticket all the way to the National Championship. Feel me?"

Clap!

Hands snapped together, and we broke straight into the formation. Seven seconds left on the play clock — I had to call it now.

"Red-80!! Turbo, set!!"

I'll admit it: Najee Harris was insane tonight. DeVonta Smith was DeVonta Smith. Mac Jones?

Mac Jones Who?

That one's a joke. Mostly.

After Kitty's drop turned into an interception and I was stewing over it, Coach Monken had come over to console me — by thrusting tonight's stat sheet into my hands. Showing me how well I was actually playing. And I'd checked Mac Jones's line too. Three touchdown passes tonight, 376 total passing yards. He'd connected on a 17-yarder on the last drive, plus one more completion after that — so he'd likely cracked the 400-yard mark himself.

(Brad Nessler)

"Twenty-five yards from the backfield. Moi. Quick throw to Jermaine Burton. Tackled after the catch — a dive — and he's just a hair short of the first down. But another beautiful throw. Dwayne Moi Stone has now broken 450 passing yards tonight. Outstanding."

(Gary Danielson)

"Of every SEC Championship Game I have ever watched, this is the greatest quarterback performance of them all. Mac Jones is playing at a level that, on any other night, you'd call historic. Dwayne Moi Stone is one full tier above him."

"Turbo, set!!"

Another snap in my hands — and this time, I did something a little different. A quarterback is supposed to take the snap from under center and drop back. This time, I just bolted to the right.

Justin, Peter, and Darnell swallowed Alabama's left D-line beautifully, I trailed behind them, and the moment I felt like I'd cleared the wash, I cut back left and ran.

(Brad Nessler)

"Past midfield— and he keeps going! Stiff arm! More! He's out of bounds at the 35!! What on EARTH is happening right now?! Georgia's quarterback takes the snap and just GOES — a 31-yard rush!!"

The run wasn't something we'd scripted. The offensive design just happened to leave a lane, and I judged that taking it myself was the better play. The original call was designed for me to take the snap, turn, hand off to James Cook, and threaten right before striking the back side. Instead—

"Damn, you maniac! How'd you pull that off?!"

"You just run, that's all. Let's go!"

"That's filthy!"

Feeling George's knuckles rap my helmet, I trotted toward the hash marks. Another sign came in from the sideline, and I relayed it in front of the huddle.

"Hello Kitty. 3-2 Scat Apache."

Clap!

Fifteen more yards, and we'd be inside the red zone. That was the immediate goal — so for now, I tucked my greed away and followed the script. Y-Shallow. North Light Clamp. If I'd broken down Hello Kitty into a full call, that's how it would've sounded — two separate words stretched across precious seconds. But I'd always preferred compressed play calls that carried two or more concepts inside a single word. Some coaches swear by the explicit, step-by-step instruction. I'd always considered that a waste of time.

Thankfully, Coach and Coach Monken thought the same way I did.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

Out of the shotgun, I drifted left to open my sightlines. Nobody would expect us to trust Kitty as a receiver again after the catastrophic drop on the last drive — and honestly, that's exactly why I loved the call. A fatal mistake can be buried under a highlight play. That's how morale climbs. That's the mechanism.

(Brad Nessler)

"Moi. McKitty — gotta complete! First down! And look at this pace, folks: a drive that started at their own 14 has moved to the 24-yard line in one minute, twenty-six seconds, on just four plays."

About five minutes left. If I could, I'd burn two of them and punch in a touchdown. But I wasn't going to obsess over it — on a day like today, when everything you touch turns to gold, clock management never bends to your wishes. When it's rolling, you just keep rolling. Keep hammering.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

Ball to Zamir. He churned forward and gained six. Red zone.

I fired a signal to the sideline immediately. The personnel we needed trotted on, the personnel group locked in — and we huddled.

"Trips Buzz Light. You got it? This is the Virgin Pinball Screen."

Clap!

Buzz Right — a screen pass concept. Virgin Pinball Screen — that part described the blocking structure. Leave George alone on the left, send James Cook to the right slot so the right side momentarily forms trips. On the snap, Cook bounces even wider. Meanwhile Jordan and Burton, already aligned right, become his wall of blockers, and Kitty punches through the line of scrimmage to join them as a third escort.

It's a screen, after all — the ball leaves my hands fast, out of the pocket. I wanted at least five yards out of it, because I had something waiting on the other side.

"Red-80!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

Snap from the shotgun, eyes immediately right. The pass floated to James Cook, who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sprinted forward under the heavy security escort of his big brothers — out there protecting his virtue like it was family heirloom. Six yards gained. Better than expected.

And now.

"…"

The new personnel group formed on my signal, and in front of the huddle, I called it.

"Mom Said Come Home."

"Hell yeah — we're sending their asses home, right?!"

"That's the idea. Listen up. Trips Nasty. Halo. Left Out. 3-2 Screen Z-Arrow."

Clap!

How it happens, I couldn't tell you. Even back in my head-coaching days, it just arrived — pure instinct, descending onto the field. Ever since that 31-yard scramble, I'd already decided what the final strike would be. I wasn't thinking about failure. It will work.

Trips Nasty is one of the most common formations in football — but the play call Mom Said Come Home would be the seasoning that bent it into something new. The rest was blocking assignments and decoy routes for the sacrificial receivers.

The formation set. I swept my eyes across the defense. No danger flags. So I clapped without hesitation.

Clap!

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

CLAP!!

The snap keyed to the second clap. I found George without a moment's delay. First and 18 from our own side meant I didn't need to wait for anyone's route to develop — and George was streaking vertical anyway. Patrick Surtain was draped all over him.

So what? What's it to me?

My throw would arc in a soft rainbow — and if there was one thing George Pickens did better than anyone alive, it was winning a football acrobatically. On that count, he was better than DeVonta Smith himself. That I'd stake everything on.

"…"

The pass left my hand. George, still running, raised his right hand to the sky. Then he jumped.

The moment the ball stuck to the palm of his outstretched right hand — a man leaping as if he were falling backward into the end zone — and I watched him tuck it straight into his chest, I swung both raised arms down without mercy.

"FUCK, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT!!!"

(Brad Nessler)

"UNBELIEVABLE!! GREAT CATCH BY GEORGE PICKENS!! Georgia does it AGAIN!! And Moi does it AGAIN!! Alabama is not being granted a single inch of a comeback!!"